


Heavens to Betsy

by theCrowe



Category: BattleTech: MechWarrior
Genre: Clan Invasion, Gen, Inner sphere, Original Characters - Freeform, Skye march, Steiner - Freeform, family bonds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 17:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13195473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theCrowe/pseuds/theCrowe
Summary: When the family Battlemaster is heading out to take on the clans the old girl means a lot of different things to each generation.





	Heavens to Betsy

Alexandria, Skye March  
Federated Commonwealth  
14 January 3052

Cormac Mackenzie felt the dizzying wave subside as his sense of balance altered to accommodate the frame of the BLR-3M Battlemaster. One giant foot lifted off the ferrocrete followed by another as the eighty five ton armoured behemoth began to walk with all the grace and poise of a heavy set man in plate armour. He checked the systems with practiced methodical care; power, coolant, stabilisers, weapons: green lights across the board including the half lit orange damage indicator for the left hip actuator which always came on sporadically when the diagnostic systems were running. Trying to ignore it he continued the checks. It was a little annoyance which had bugged him for years. He had checked the actuator, changed the boards, tested circuits and rewired countless times. He shrugged. This centuries old war horse just had its foibles like any other. Maybe it was one of the connector blocks inside the leg. He tried to forget about it. It wouldn't matter. It only seemed to happen during a systems diagnostic and in the heat of a battle a minor actuator fault light would mean nothing to a Mechwarrior who could feel the machine's joints working perfectly. 

"Mac?… Bay One to Mac, copy?"

"Copy, one. Just getting that fault light again, it's…"

"Aw come on Mac you already checked it about a million times, it's just a spliced connection or some old internal botch job. The joint's fine isn't it? We're on a tight schedule here, make a move"

"Yeah… alright One I'm bringing her in."

The 'Mech turned and strode toward the loading bay. Mac favoured the left leg a little as he twisted and worked the suspect hip joint a little more than necessary on his way in. Mac swung the Battlemaster's arms out and flexed the machine's massive digits, ostensibly testing their dexterity but really he was enjoying a brief opportunity to feel the power at his own fingertips before he handed the machine over to the armoury officer.

"Steady as she goes, Mac. Preparing docking clamps."

Mac dropped the arms and punched in the codes for the armament dock sequence. He turned the 'Mech around to face outward and reversed carefully,  
bringing the machine's toes to the yellow marked boundary of Loading Bay One before punching the "Go" to initiate docking stance.

"Docking aye."

"Copy that."

A series of mechanised clunks and hissing hydraulics indicated the docking clamps were being applied. A jolt to the right shoulder caused Mac some consternation. He would have to alter the preset docking stance when next he had a chance. He couldn't have the Captain's 'Mech scratched and dented every time it went for a reload. He hadn't worked his way up to the position of Chief Astech by programming sloppy presets and he prided himself on his attention to detail. He hadn't always wanted to be a crew chief, heck he hadn't even wanted to be a technician at one time. He'd been a 'Mech-geek boy like so many others, head full of 'Mech specs and war stories, who dreamed of glory in battle at the helm of a BattleMech. 

Real life was a little more down to earth, but only a little. The little boy inside of him smiled, he loved his job. Sure it was hard graft and presented its own fair share of dangers but he loved being elbow deep in 'Mech tech and solving complex technical issues in some of the most complex machines ever built. And of course he got to pilot them every now and then, happily not in war zones against other 'Mechs. It wasn't the fear of death in battle that got to him. Technicians, valuable as they were to both sides were still vulnerable when posted in war zone facilities and Mac had seen more war zones than he cared to recall. It was the idea of destroying another 'Mech that irked him. He knew on more than an intellectual level that it was kill or be killed out there: Destroy or be destroyed, but he was a lover not a fighter. He felt too much respect and awe for these colossal, intricate, delicately balanced beasts that he even regretted stripping irreparable machines for parts. But for the new life they offered his own cherished…

"Bay One hard Dock complete. Engage fire safety, open loading access, power down and exit the vehicle." 

Mac groaned at the armoury officer's dulling recited rote liturgy. As if he didn't know the sequence by now the man still insisted on doing everything strictly by the book. He deigned not to reply shutting off his coms and beginning the loading prep and power down sequence.

"That's 'armoury' for you." he muttered to himself while checking the already engaged safety on the weapons systems and opening the access hatches. 

"Bunch of clock watching, bullet counting…" he waited for the green light for critical heat drain before flicking each toggle switched across the main power board "pencil pushing, list making" he flicked the switches to disengage the neural helmet links and gulped hard as his balance returned to that of a middle aged, slightly overweight man in a chair. His train of thought momentarily interrupted, he unclamped the canopy and pressed out into the cool air of the docking station."starched uniform waring sons of…" he trailed off.

Waiting on the gantry adjacent to the cockpit were the General and his grandson. Mac elected not to teach the young boy any more about the lineage of armoury officers and instead greeted both with what he hoped was his most winning smile.

"Mac" the old man bellowed "how's the old girl holding up?"

Mac stepped carefully out of the cockpit and shimmied over to the gantry  
"No, don't get up boss." he joked. The old man being wheelchair-bound laughed at his wicked sense of humour and slapped him on the back as he descended the short step down onto the gantry.

"She's fit and well, Sir, ready for anything."

"Fighting fit, Mac says, that's what she's all about, my boy" he ruffled the excited lad's hair and wheeled himself over to the edge of the gantry to get a more frontal view. 

"What do make of that, boy?" he beamed. "Got me this one myself on Dromini VI from an old Draco snake way back in twenty one."

The lad had heard the tale countless times but no-one interrupted the General. 

"Damn near took my head off with those very hands." he winked at the boy who stood silent and agape at his Grandpa's cussing, but neither confederate would tell his Mom. 

"O'course that was long before this old ride took over." he slapped the side of his wheelchair good humouredly "I was a young man then, not unlike yourself." he added generously to the boy's delight. "Full o' wild-heart an' belly-fire." 

"That old snake should'a got me good. My old Banshee wan't worth a damn after he'd been though with it, but it still had fists enough to put his lights out."

He swung a big left haymaker at the air and grinned wide at the boy. Mac rolled his eyes, it seemed he was forever fixing broken gauntlets on Banshees as their young pilots were all too often more fond of boxing than marksmanship. He could see the old fella eyeing the surface of the machine for the self same decades old damage he had inflicted. As if Mac could let something like that go uncorrected for so long. He chose to let the implied insult pass. 

The General eyed the machine silently for a long time. Had it been so very long ago? It must have been twenty standard years or more since he had sat in that cockpit. Not since his last tour of duty. His twin stumps twinged with phantom limb sensations like pins and needles in the feet he didn't have. He had tried cybernetic prosthetics but the nerve damage was too severe and it only left him with worse pain and still limited mobility. An ammunition explosion was a hell of a way to go down but he'd been told, and he kept telling himself that he'd been lucky. 

"She's not exactly how i left her, Mac?" the old man offered, groping for a hand out of his reverie. 

"No, Sir." Mac hesitated, surely he didn't expect to see the same old ragged PPC gash in the torso that had breached his missile cache way back then. Perhaps it was the weapons load out. 

"The Captain has her set up a little differently now, Boss. We were able to double up the heat sinks and upgrade the 'Donal' for a better ranged model. She dropped one of the machine guns too so we could fit a CASE system."

The General just nodded in mute acceptance, knowing the futility of any argument from him on the merits of CASE. 

"There's even been talk of a "3S" upgrade" Mac continued "if we can source an XL engine. What can i say, Sir, the times are a-changing."

"Out with the old, Mac" the old man sighed. "And in with the new, boy, eh?" he bellowed in a show of adventurous spirit for the lad of nine standard years at his side. "One day boy this old trap may be yours to pilot in your own battles." 

The boy beamed. 

"And who knows what lost-tech wonders you'll have me rig up in there then, eh?" Mac added in a show of solidarity with the old man's attempted rebound from whatever was clearly troubling him. He looked like he would appreciate some time alone with his thoughts so Mac took the boy by the shoulder.

"Hey Timmy, would you like to join me in the mess and tell me all about your first day on the base? I'll bet your Mom has shown you lots of neat stuff today?" 

"Thanks, Mac." The General answered for him. Their footfalls receded on the metal walkway leaving both old warriors facing each other alone together in another world.

The General brooded in dark reflection for some time before a sudden impulse that both shocked and exhilarated him threw him bodily from both his wheelchair and his reverie. Grasping the steel rungs welded to the side of the cockpit to arrest his fall he began hauling himself upward and finally into the cockpit itself. He was pulling himself upright and swivelling himself into the seat before he knew what he was doing. It had been more than twenty years since last he sat in the pilot's seat of a BattleMech. Not just any 'Mech but this one. Still unable or unwilling to reason why he had suddenly decided to revisit this place he closed his eyes to shut out the questions and allowed his other senses to thrill and awaken the moment. 

Unguided his hands fell naturally to the controls as of old, taking a hard firm grip on the control sticks. He breathed deep and slowly, the mingled odour of sour sweat, mineral oil and vintage leather.The sudden exertion of the climb and the thrill of adrenaline had elevated his heart rate like combat and caused a dew of sweat on the back of his neck. He could almost feel the heat rising in the cockpit. Fragments of coms chatter came back to him from ages past like ghosts of long forgotten conversations. Coded messages and inside jokes between a brotherhood of officers. Familiar voices laughing, cursing, screaming. 

His brow furrowed at the blip of a MAD reading showing a concentration of magnetic disturbance to the west of his position. He watched the scene play out helplessly as a pair of light Mechs, a Griffin and a Panther ambushed him alone and immobilised. His feet pumped furiously on the pedals as eighty five tons of Mech struggled to gain purchase in a swampy mire surrounded by Brella trees and choked with enemy fire. PPC blasts from both sides caused white spots to flare on his retinas as he fired at fleeting and disappearing targets all the while rocked and battered by missile clusters and lasers. Warning lights and klaxons buzzed as heat rose to critical levels. The General reached up and punched the override as if to shut off the scene from unfolding toward its inevitable climax. A critical hit from a PPC in his right torso caused him to twist and overbalance, falling hard, his own PPC buried deep in the mud as his left arm dropped to brace his fall. The Panther pounced, burning in on jets of flame it absorbed a fraction of his last desperate volley of laser fire as it closed the range. It must have fired at almost point blank range right into his already damaged right torso igniting his nearly depleted supply of missiles. He could remember no more. 

With an effort of will the General opened his eyes. He was almost surprised to find his legs missing, so real had been the sensation of his feet on the pedals. He eased his white-knuckle grip off the controls and took a long, steady breath. He could remember being dragged back to the base by Lieutenant McPherson's Banshee. He had spent the rest of that ill-fated tour of Marfik in recovery. His friend Malcolm had joined him briefly on the ward after his Zeus was mauled by the same pair. He was somewhat consoled at the news of Malcolm's confirmed kill of the Griffin pilot but the Panther remained at large. He never did get to hunt down that particular cat. Or was it a rat? What sort of a legion had a rat for an emblem, he mused. He knew exactly their sort. Cowards and sneaks and dirty fighters. He hadn't seen a decent stand-up fight from those damned dirty dracos even once. The rat was too good for them.

A clatter of dropped tools resounded on the gantry outside and the call of a desperate man brought him back to the present. 

"General!, Sir… oh my… General!"

"Im in here Man!" he called from inside the cockpit craning his neck over the edge.

"Oh thank heavens, General…Sir…" the armoury officer panted, catching his breath hand on his palpitating heart. "I saw your empty chair on the gantry here and I… well... i thought you had…anyway I…" the man faltered equally relieved and embarrassed at his mistake. 

The General blustered in indignation "Just help me out of here Jeff!"

\--------------------------------------

 

Timmy slinked through the armoury hangar like a shadow pausing only briefly to gawp at the hundred ton monster in bay four before fleeing for the relative familiarity and safety of the machine in bay one. He clambered up inside the Battlemaster's cockpit and ducked down out of sight, holding his breath though his blood roared as if his heart was a small a fusion generator in his chest. Only when he was certain that he hadn't been spotted did he tentatively slide himself up into the seat. He still couldn't see clear over the dash but all the better, he thought, neither would he be seen from below. The dipping bucket seat with its ages worn leather, slick and slidy, threatened to swallow him whole but he shimmied forward and held onto the controls to keep from sliding back again. Thus perched he reverently beheld the decks and rows of toggle switches and colourful indicator lights, dials and displays. Biting his lower lip it took every ounce of Timmy's nine year old restraint and self control to only flick a single switch. Nothing happened but he very quickly switched it back just in case. 

His legs dangled freely over the edge of the seat, he kicked and swung them with excitement. Feeling something flat and heavy in his cargo pants pocket he stopped and drew out his deck of Camo Specs Trading Cards. Timmy was a keen collector and had brought all of his doubles to the base for trading. One of the interns in the aerospace crew had shown him an actual Jamie Wolf card. It was mint in a plastic cover and it showed the old guy with a holographic cut away of his blue and gold Archer superimposed in the print. He didn't have anything worth trading for something that rare. He'd picked up a few fighter cards, a Chippewa, a Slayer and an Angel, he flicked through his new additions already a little bored of them. 

Inspiration and mischief flashed and in an instant he was shuffling frantically looking for just the right cards. 'Sword of Light Wasp', 2nd Dieron Regulars Jenner'… Something bigger, there, a Dragon, Ry-U-Ken Ro-Ku? He'd never heard of them but they were Dracs and they'd die just as well as a Sworder. Still a Dragon was about as light weight as the heavy classification allowed. He despaired for the first time at the lack of DCMS units in his deck. There, a Marauder card! It was a big blue and white 36th Lyran Guards Marauder. He didn't care much for them either, it would do just fine. Anyway, everyone knew a Marauder was a bad-guy Mech. He lined up his adversaries on the dash when suddenly an idea came to mind, a mayday call, a desperate plea for help. Timmy shuffled his cards the "Angel Light Strike Fighter" came to hand, it was under attack!

"Nnnneeeeeeeyyyyyaaaaaaaaaaaaaowww! Mayday Mayday! Angel fighter calling all units! I'm Hit! Draco Mechs to the North East. A Mixed Lance of lights and heavies. That Wasp just clipped my wings, i'm going down!" the card flopped lifelessly into the footwell and Timmy took the control sticks slowly in each hand eyeing each adversary card in turn with steely resolve. Those snakes would pay for that!

"Captain Tim MacCoul pushed his 'Mech to its top speed of 64.8Km/hr" Timmy knew all the stats. "and felt the heat rising steadily but comfortably in the confines of the cockpit of his BLR-3M Battlemaster."

"Cresting a dune he caught the flash of a red Wasp ducking for cover, cowering like a craven in the face of his awesomeness!" 

Timmy grinned as he yanked hard on the controls and pressed his thumbs down on the button triggers utterly heedless of his former reservations.

"In a blistering arc of ionised particles the Wasp's cover is blown to pieces leaving him exposed for the coward he is. As MacCoul closed the distance at speed a volley from his Marrtell medium lasers sliced the Wasp to ribbons. A huge armoured foot crushed the head of the fallen wreck like a bug as Tim pressed forward into the fight."

One down, he flicked the vanquished Wasp card unceremoniously onto its face.

"A Jenner tried to stand and fight like a fool! Its puny lasers were no match for Tim MacCoul's awesome Donal PPC. Particles of blazing energy tore through the air and made little work of the gangly Mech's leg melting armour and endo-frame alike into cinders and molten slag. MacCoul's machine tore off the thing's head with its giant armoured gauntlets and the eighty five ton assault Mech spun like an olympic athlete of old flinging the discus right into the torso of the sixty ton Dragon providing paltry fire support in the rear."

The Jenner card spun discus-like facedown onto the dash.

"You cannot stand before the might of the Dragon!" Timmy jeered in mock japanese accent.

"Oh yeah? Stand before this, Snake! The full might of the Battlemster's arsenal unleashed at once in the face of the draco enemy, finally SRMs streaked trails of smoke seeking the rents and gashes left by lasers and PPC in ragged scars all over the devastated Dragon. Alarms sounded as the computer warned of heat overload but MacCoul smashed the override and fired everything again! The now mangled Dragon, the Mech-Embodiment of the enemies' Lord and empire toppled, utterly overwhelmed!"

The card toppled.

"Now only the Marauder remained. The pair nearly matched in weight and speed, circled like boxers in the ring crushing houses and vehicles underfoot with no more care than children on an ant-hill."

"There is no escape you Damn Dirty Drac!" Timmy drawled doing his best impression of his Grandfather

"Fool!" replied a thick Kuritan accent "You will be the one who is escaping!" 

"Escape this you filthy spawn of a Snake!"

"You know, Timmy we haven't been at war with the Draconis Combine for more than a decade now." Timmy jumped and fell back into the bucket seat suddenly feeling very small, scared and foolish. Mac had found him out. "not since before you were even born."

"SO?!" The boy moped. "They still hurt my Grampa. I hate the damn Dracs! I don't care if we're not at war I'll still show 'em when i'm…"

"Easy Timmy. Old timer's battles ain't your own, son. You'll have your own enemies in your own time to fight soon enough. By all accounts the Dracs have their hands full with the Clans as it is. We may even have to fight along side them before the end of this war."

"No Way! I hate the damn Dracs and I don't need their help neither! I'm not scared of the clans!"

"Well you're plenty scared of your Mom I'll bet, now get outa there this instant before i call her up and tell her 'bout all your cussing!"

Timmy turned white and gathered up his vanquished foes in silence. He considered them briefly in a cold new light before stuffing them deep into his pocket out of sight.

\----------------------------------------

The Captain, climbed into the cockpit with practiced ease and dropped into the familiar comfortable seat. Leaning forward and reaching a hand behind for the safety harness she noticed something bright on the floor. It was a card.  
'Angel Light Strike Fighter" she read aloud, knowing her son had been sneaking about where he wasn't allowed. She didn't mind all that much, she thought with a tender smile, sliding the card into a crack in a switch panel on the right of the dash. He was her son after all. 

She gathered the cabling from the rack above her head and pressed the bundle of connectors into the back of her neuro-helmet and pushing her fringe behind one ear she slipped it on. She keyed in her unique start up sequence and braced herself. The wave of dizziness as the system linked her balance and impulse outputs to the machine was very brief but even the most finely tuned helmet couldn't eliminate it completely.

"Good morning, Betsy. How are you feeling today?" She asked as she initiated a systems diagnostic and quickly inventoried her arms supply. The Captain, like many other Mechwarriors had chosen a name for her 'Mech. Unlike the vast majority though she hadn't opted for a particularly dramatic or awe inspiring moniker. Whatever her father had called his Battlemaster she had become so used to him casually referring to the machine as 'the old girl" that Betsy, an old ladies's name seemed quite appropriate. She felt that the name gave Betsy an air of dignity rarely afforded such a venerable weapon of war. She dreaded to think what her son might call the 'Mech. Knowing his current nine-year-old tastes it would likely be ridiculous like 'The Master-Blaster, or something.

Or she thought, Finn perhaps, after his mythological giant namesake? It hadn't been many years since she had read him the old stories of Tir-Na-Nog at bed times. Finn MacCoul was of course his favourite then but ten standard years from now, or so she hoped when she would eventually hand down the family heirloom, would he still make the connection? Ten years from now, would the war against The Clans be over? Would their strange warrior culture blot out the old ways or would the giant Finn MacCoul rise again to defend his people as the tales said he would? 

The diagnostic report broke into her musings. All systems nominal, minor defect detected in left hip actuator sensory systems. She made a mental note to add that to Mac's maintenance roster for the out-bound journey. Betsy couldn't very well show up to the ball with a dodgy actuator, not when their were so many keen clan warriors to dance with. 

"Bay one prepare to exit. Initiating detachment, stand by for clearance." 

"Standing by.'' She waited listening to the familiar sounds of clamps and other docking systems disengaging. Betsy felt loose now, released from the steel hold or the loading bay and ready to step out.

"Green light Bay One, and Godspeed Captain."

"Thankyou Lieutenant." 

The Captain checked the ground between bay one and the hangar door for stray personnel before she stepped forward. Green light wouldn't be given if  
there were anyone in the way but with the entire base on active duty preparing for launch and an 85 ton monster at your command you could never be too sure. As she emerged from the hangar a pair of ZEU-9S Zeus Mechs were already waiting on the ferocrete staging ground. She opened a microwave communications line

"Good morning boys." 

"Morning Captain." They chorused. Behind her a massive AS7-S Atlas was emerging from the hangar completing the gathering of her command lance. 

"Remember guys, no-one's out there on their own" she began "Adam i don't want to see any of your 'personal initiatives' and likewise, Mark, no show-boating and hot-dogging. If its getting too hot to handle we all fall back on Luke and remember these Clan 'Mech's may be tough but if we stick together they can't take us one by one like they seem to want to." 

"And Luke" she continued "I don't care if you outweigh every 'Mech on the field, you do not under any circumstances accept any personal challenges from any enemy 'Mech. We are a unit, we fight as a unit and we will all return as a unit do I make myself clear, gentlemen?"

"Aye Captain."

"Got it Captain"

"Loud and Clear Captain."

"Any last checks or messages to loved ones, make them quick. Our boarding schedule by my clock says we have less than eight minutes." 

She turned her 'Mech toward the Union class DropShip at the far end of the staging area and throttled Betsy up to a slow steady stride. She was, like so many other MechWarriors of the Inner Sphere, going to war. It wasn't as if she had never fought a battle before or been part of a major military engagement, she was after all a soldier, a warrior. Not only that, she was a leader of men. She felt the full weight of that responsibility and was glad to have Betsy's giant shoulder's to help her bare it. 

On the North side of the landing strip an observation tower stood tall and isolated. She turned her visual enhancement array toward it's facing windows and could easily make out the figures of her son and her father watching the action from the best vantage point in the base. She felt her own motherhood more keenly now than ever. She glanced at the Angle Fighter card watching over her from her dash and drew a little strength from the presence of her family. She was not just a warrior, she was also a daughter and a mother and her zeal for the pride in her father's eyes and the fierceness of her love for her son were a deeper part of her than her military training, her professionalism and her patriotism. An open frequency light blinked into view and she spotted the DropShip boarding ramp strip-lights flashing in their inviting strobing pattern designed to aid boarding in poor visibility conditions. 

The Captain hailed the DropShip, "'DropShip Invictus', This is Captain Alexandra MacCoul and company requesting permission to board."

"Captain Seneadza, DropShip Invictus, welcome aboard Commander" MacCoul took the proffered promotion in her twelve meter stride. After all, they couldn't both be called 'Captain'. That may make for a long and confusing voyage especially during briefings.

Her command lance filed in behind her now striding down the ferrocrete toward the open maw of the huge bulbous ship. She raised the right hand of her father's Battlemaster; the one she had named Betsy, whom her son in turn one day may call his own, and executed a sharp, not at all robotic salute toward them in the observation tower as she passed. The General helped Timmy to straighten up his nine-year-old's version of the standard military gesture before snapping of a solid and solemn salute of his own. Side by side, together they watched her go, taking with her all their hopes, fears and dreams aboard a DropShip bound for the stars.


End file.
